


as the flames wash around me

by saeturn



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saeturn/pseuds/saeturn
Summary: the chosen undead is starved of comfort, the shell of his body untouched for an eternity.will he still recognise the touch of warmth when it finds him?
Relationships: Chosen Undead/Laurentius of the Great Swamp
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	as the flames wash around me

The Chosen Undead would always sit at the base of the tree, just before dawn. He would unclasp his helmet, place it beside him, and wait for the sunrise. This was the only time his helmet was not on his head, to watch the sky in full clarity. He would never remove it otherwise, for it was a sin for others to look upon his face, though he did not know why. He didn't know what he looked like, just that his hair was dark, cropped close.  
Before replacing the helmet, he would look over his shoulder at the man sleeping several metres away. He would look on his face, the rugged lines and messy stubble, the peaceful expression, and the faintest smile would cross his lips, though he did not know why.  
That name; _Laurentius_ , would bounce around in his head, buzz at his lips. He was desperate to speak it, as if it were a hymn. He failed at the first, the _La_ , for he had no tongue with which to guide the sound. In a time, now long past, he was a Cleric's study. Chaste, shrouded, and fiercely devout. He dedicated himself to the study of miracles, and he would sing the holy gospel with a voice like honey. _Laurentius_. That was ancient history now.

The Chosen Undead could hear Laurentius stir behind him, he felt a twinge in his heart. Despite the lush greenery - and the ever-watchful crow - the Shrine felt barren. There were a few fair-weather inhabitants; the down trodden warrior in mail, the detestful Petrus, and the most stable fixture; Laurentius. The thought of their meeting filled him with a unique affection, such hospitable treatment was rarer in Lordran than gold.

Laurentius awoke to the sun's warmth kissing gently on his skin. He opened his eyes, and looked upon the back of Him, the 'Chosen Undead,' and lamented once more the lack of a name. His eyes drifted up broad back, to strong neck, and short whorls of mousy hair. He blinked rapidly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light, and that damned helmet was on again.   
'Morning,' Laurentius drawled in his thick accent, the Chosen Undead turned to him.  
He gestured a short greeting, the tone obscured by those ornate gauntlets.  
'It's... really beautiful this morning isn't it?' He smiled dreamily, face bathed in rich orange light.  
The Chosen Undead smiled under his helmet, nodding exaggeratedly. He couldn't summon what he wanted to convey, so the silence would suffice. The tension in the air was electric - as it always seemed to be - the weight of a hundred things left unsaid bulging at the seams. There was a subconscious mutual understanding of their shared fears; that a single misplaced word would cause all of it to come rushing to the surface, splayed every which way like an egg on tile.

He sat quietly with him. Laurentius had a certain smallness about him, a quietude, that made him feel so comfortable. He was like an ember, burning so meekly and warmly, an intimate little flame. In a world so large and so cold and so lonely, he relished the tenderness, the comfort, the companionship that Laurentius represented.  
Laurentius' voice was always soft when he would talk, it was always about his life before and nothing else. He tended to do that, split it into before and after _Him_ , comfortable suffering becoming tenuous peace. The Chosen Undead would never interrupt him, just listening, softening, slowly memorising the man's rugged face as he spoke.  
Laurentius would often get carried away in his stories and become embarrassed once he realised he was talking too much, only to pause abruptly. He would look at the Chosen Undead, and wish that he could speak, wish that he would take that damned helmet off, though the facade was admittedly a form of quiet excitement. In the second of unmetered connection, he would imagine it all. Imagine his singing voice, the curve of his face, the feel of his skin... or... no.  
The Chosen Undead couldn't feel that way about him, but what was that way in the first place? Laurentius did not know, it was unlike anything he had felt before. The confusion of it scratched dully at his skull, annoying and constant. The man was so strong, so resilient, he held a part of Laurentius' flame - the thought of which caused his heart to skip a beat - but he was an absolute mystery at the same time. Laurentius did not know what he fought for, or even his name, or what he did outside of Firelink. He longed so desperately for him to come back and speak endlessly of his adventures. He longed endlessly to simply _know_ him. And he worried, he worried that he would never see him again, that he would return a little bit hollower each time, that he would chip away slowly until there was only a shell left. It was happening to everyone nowadays. Thoughts like that made Laurentius want to hold on to him and never let him go.


End file.
